Meanwhile, the two officers were gasping, thankfully—in Adele’s opinion—refraining from firing while blinded. They choked and gagged, their faces covered in pepper spray, their hands wiping through the air.
Adele cursed, running to John’s side and dragging him up. As she passed the area where Rodin had been standing, her own eyes began to tear up and she looked hastily away, blinking rapidly and waving at the air before her nose.
“Damn it,” she muttered. “John, are you all right?”
Her partner growled, extricating himself from the toppled table and wiping a hand across his eyes.
“Make sure the officers are fine,” John snapped, his eyes zeroing in on Martin Rodin’s retreating form like a shark spotting a trout. He pushed off the table and broke into a sprint, racing out the door in pursuit of the bartender.
CHAPTER NINE
John’s feet pounded the concrete as he slammed through the glass door of the small cafe, his burning eyes fixed on the retreating form of the ferret-faced Mr. Rodin. John cursed, reaching up and wiping in frustration at his eyes. Behind him, as the door slipped shut, he heard Adele, concerned, calling out to the woman behind the counter. “Water, please! I need water for their eyes.”
John, though, had his own eyes fixed on a different task.
He raced across the platform, chasing after Mr. Rodin where the bartender ducked behind a newspaper stand.
John called out, “Stop! Rodin—stop running!”
The man glanced back, his angled features rearranged into an expression of fright. He squeaked at the sight of the tall Frenchman barreling down on him and then twisted, turning to race in the direction of the tracks.
John glimpsed a train pulling into the station from the opposite, open-air entrance. The large locomotive hissed and scraped as it whined against the tracks, attempting to bring its girth to a halt. Rodin, for his part yelped and, desperately dodging a row of luggage piled next to the train, vaulted over a suitcase and landed on the very lip of the barrier between the tracks and the passengers.
John doubled his speed, shouting, “Don’t be stupid!”
Martin Rodin gave another wild look over his shoulder in John’s direction. For a moment, he turned, squeaking, his hand pulling out his small device of pepper spray again.
John’s eyes narrowed and his own hand darted to his weapon at his hip. He didn’t call out this time, instead favoring to conserve his breath for a lunging sprint across the luggage, bounding over it like a panther, steely muscle and focused fury in Martin Rodin’s direction.
The barkeep seemed to make up his mind at the last moment though. With another squeak, he spun around, slamming the spray back in his pocket, and then, with what sounded like an audible gulp, he leapt from the platform just as John reached him.
At the same time, the train pulled into the station fully, coming very close to crushing Rodin.
John cursed, jerking back, careful to avoid the ten tons of steel and metal. The machine chugged past, squealing to a final halt and then resting as a metal barrier. John breathed heavily, staring at where Rodin had managed to just barely reach the other side and desperately clamber his way up and onto the platform there.
Rodin turned around, staring at John through a gap in two of the train cars.
John cursed, glancing up and down, but the train was equally extensive in both directions. Passengers began boarding and disembarking, pouring out into the station and further blocking Rodin from view.
The bartender breathed heavily for a moment, reaching up to wipe a glaze of sweat from his angled features and then paused long enough to give John a coy wink through the small gap between the two train cars.
John’s eyes narrowed. And Martin blew a kiss, beginning to turn to dart away again.
Anger began to rise in Renee’s chest. He clenched his teeth, narrowing his eyes like a bull at the sight of a red handkerchief. So that’s how Martin wanted to play it, was it?
John had seen enough. Going around the train wasn’t an option—he’d lose the bastard.
So instead, John, propelled by a rising wave of fury, sprinted directly toward the train. Rodin paused, half turned, frowning and glancing back. He watched as John took three sprinting steps with his massive legs and then flung himself at the side of the train.
Rodin’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared.
“Yeah, that’s right,” John muttered beneath his breath. The metal was hot near the wheels and cool toward the top. He pushed off the lower portion of the train coupling, using it to launch his lengthy body upward. His hands snared the slanted aluminum room of the nearest passenger car. His body slipped and his shirt rose, allowing his bare abdomen to press against the cold glass. He realized three women were inside the train car, staring out at him and not quite looking away despite his glare.
John grunted, struggling, and then, kicking, pulled himself onto the roof of the train.
He heard a curse that came from Rodin’s direction and didn’t hesitate to move. John sprinted across the roof and, spotting Martin now darting toward the nearest exit, he began sprinting along the roof of the train, his massive feet pounding into the metal.
John gasped, his arms swinging like pistons, his legs flashing beneath him. He eyed Rodin’s progress out of the corner of his eye, gasping doggedly. And then, as Martin tried to merge into the crowd, angling toward one of the turnstiles, John leapt with a howl.
He dove off the top of the train, colliding with the fleeing bartender.
The two of them struck the ground in a tangle of limbs, both of them gasping and scrambling for supremacy. John was twice the size of the smaller Mr. Rodin, though, and it didn’t take long to struggle on top and then grip the man by the collar, hoisting him to his feet.
“No you don’t,” he snapped, reaching out and ripping the pepper spray out of Rodin’s trembling hand.
The bartender slumped now, in John’s grip, stuttering and gasping, saying, “I—it was an accident. I didn’t—sorry—please don’t…”
John snorted and gave a little shake until Rodin quieted. He tested his weight on his ankles, grateful to find his lunge off the roof of the train car hadn’t caused any damage. Then he gave Rodin another little shake. “Think that was a smart move, do you?” he asked.
Martin’s head hung, and he looked glumly over at John’s still watering eyes. John sighed at how miserable the man looked and eased his grip—if only a little. He growled and began to tug at Martin. In the distance, between the trains, he could see where Adele had emerged from the cafeteria and was now watching the two of them, her mouth open, her eyes wide.
John felt a flash of delight she’d witnessed the snare. Just as quickly, though, he hid his expression. He’d hoped things could be smoothed over between them. But she hadn’t even been waiting for him outside Foucault’s office. He’d seen her enter the building, but then for some reason got off on the second floor. As if perhaps she was trying to avoid him. Then, when she’d entered the Executive’s office, her tone had been cool as ice.
Clearly, she still hadn’t forgiven him for letting her mother’s killer escape.
John sighed at the thought, feeling a twinge of regret. Some things, though, were outside his ability to fix. He looked between the trains at Adele, wishing for a moment that he could just talk to her. Like they used to. Could go back to when things were good between them.